elastic as it once was. But I still wear a size eight, even if I have to work out at the gym six days a week to do so. My hair is jet black—no gray, yet—muscles toned, ass firm, and my breasts still bounce rather than sag. All in all, I look pretty good, and when I finished dressing for M. this morning, I looked in the full-length mirror and was pleased with what I saw—an attractive woman in her midthirties, tall, athletic-looking in a sexy way. I admonished myself for worrying; I shouldn’t have any problem with M.
Through the plate-glass windows I see him near the back of Fluffy’s, reading the paper and drinking coffee. I enter the building and stand in line. The place is noisy. Around me, people are talking loudly, the two girls behind the counter are ringing up doughnut orders, people are shuffling in and out the door. After I pay for my coffee, I look around, feign annoyance that there isn’t an empty booth, then head for M. I don’t know why Franny found his appearance so intimidating. He seems deep in thought as he reads the newspaper, his posture erect, his face serious. He is swarthy, good-looking, if you like that type, slimly muscled and dark-complected, with an angular face that could have been sculpted—strong chin, high cheekbones, a long, straight nose. But he’s close to fifty, and it shows in the deeply lined forehead and in the permanent wrinkles set around his eyes. He’s distinguished-looking, in a professorial way, and, for Davis, he’s overdressed. Davis is a casual town; people ride bicycles, they vote Democratic, they wear Birkenstocks or tennis shoes. Everyone in Fluffy’s is dressed informally, in jeans, sweatpants, and rumpled jackets. Even the older people are dressed in everyday wear they’d lounge around in at home. But M., he looks … English. He’s wearing a brown sports coat and tan slacks—common enough—but on him they appear tailored and a bit formal. He has the well-groomed appearance of a country gentleman, and is, as Franny said, well put together.
When I approach his booth, I see he is reading the business section of the Bee. The other sections are scattered across the table, and his coffee cup is almost empty. I discover I’m nervous.
“If I refill your coffee, can I share your booth?” I ask him.
He looks up at me, tilts his head to one side, smiles slightly.
“There aren’t any empty tables,” I say, by way of explanation.
“Of course,” he says, clearing off one side of the table. “Have a seat.”
I put my coffee down, then go back up to the front counter where two coffeepots and one pot of hot water are warming on a three-plate burner. I get the coffeepot, return to his table, and fill his cup. Then, on the way back to the counter, I fill several other patrons’ cups. Fluffy’s is that kind of place: you help yourself, you help others. I slide into his booth.
“Nice morning, isn’t it?” I say. The air outside is cool and crisp, perfect weather for jogging—if I jogged.
Behind me, a man coughs hoarsely and rustles his newspaper. M. drinks his coffee, regards me over the rim of his cup.
“Yes,” he says finally. “It is a nice morning.” He sets down his cup, a calculated move, then leans back in the booth, waiting, it seems, for me to say something. I introduce myself. I tell him my name is Colleen, which happens to be my middle name. I don’t give him my last.
“Colleen,” he says, an amused glimmer in his eyes. We talk about the weather, our mutual enjoyment of jogging, the news on the front page. He tells me he’s a music professor at UCD; I tell him I’m a physical chemist, working on a project to separate the length and charge effects that occur with DNA undergoing electrophoresis.
“By itself,” I tell him, “the project doesn’t amount to much; however, it’s another piece in the puzzle. Its main interest will be to the people who are designing fluorescent molecules for the next generation of sequencing technology
Through the plate-glass windows I see him near the back of Fluffy’s, reading the paper and drinking coffee. I enter the building and stand in line. The place is noisy. Around me, people are talking loudly, the two girls behind the counter are ringing up doughnut orders, people are shuffling in and out the door. After I pay for my coffee, I look around, feign annoyance that there isn’t an empty booth, then head for M. I don’t know why Franny found his appearance so intimidating. He seems deep in thought as he reads the newspaper, his posture erect, his face serious. He is swarthy, good-looking, if you like that type, slimly muscled and dark-complected, with an angular face that could have been sculpted—strong chin, high cheekbones, a long, straight nose. But he’s close to fifty, and it shows in the deeply lined forehead and in the permanent wrinkles set around his eyes. He’s distinguished-looking, in a professorial way, and, for Davis, he’s overdressed. Davis is a casual town; people ride bicycles, they vote Democratic, they wear Birkenstocks or tennis shoes. Everyone in Fluffy’s is dressed informally, in jeans, sweatpants, and rumpled jackets. Even the older people are dressed in everyday wear they’d lounge around in at home. But M., he looks … English. He’s wearing a brown sports coat and tan slacks—common enough—but on him they appear tailored and a bit formal. He has the well-groomed appearance of a country gentleman, and is, as Franny said, well put together.
When I approach his booth, I see he is reading the business section of the Bee. The other sections are scattered across the table, and his coffee cup is almost empty. I discover I’m nervous.
“If I refill your coffee, can I share your booth?” I ask him.
He looks up at me, tilts his head to one side, smiles slightly.
“There aren’t any empty tables,” I say, by way of explanation.
“Of course,” he says, clearing off one side of the table. “Have a seat.”
I put my coffee down, then go back up to the front counter where two coffeepots and one pot of hot water are warming on a three-plate burner. I get the coffeepot, return to his table, and fill his cup. Then, on the way back to the counter, I fill several other patrons’ cups. Fluffy’s is that kind of place: you help yourself, you help others. I slide into his booth.
“Nice morning, isn’t it?” I say. The air outside is cool and crisp, perfect weather for jogging—if I jogged.
Behind me, a man coughs hoarsely and rustles his newspaper. M. drinks his coffee, regards me over the rim of his cup.
“Yes,” he says finally. “It is a nice morning.” He sets down his cup, a calculated move, then leans back in the booth, waiting, it seems, for me to say something. I introduce myself. I tell him my name is Colleen, which happens to be my middle name. I don’t give him my last.
“Colleen,” he says, an amused glimmer in his eyes. We talk about the weather, our mutual enjoyment of jogging, the news on the front page. He tells me he’s a music professor at UCD; I tell him I’m a physical chemist, working on a project to separate the length and charge effects that occur with DNA undergoing electrophoresis.
“By itself,” I tell him, “the project doesn’t amount to much; however, it’s another piece in the puzzle. Its main interest will be to the people who are designing fluorescent molecules for the next generation of sequencing technology
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